


violent delights, violent ends

by Throneofgames



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angry Sex, Arguments, F/M, If You've Seen That Show You Know Which Scene I'm Talking About, Jon and Sansa have seen Some Shit, Jon is darker post resurrection, Mostly smut and angst, Obsession, Post BOtB, Sansa Is Also Darker Given The Shit She's Been Through, Very Slightly Inspired by the Henry/Anne Scene from The Tudors, slightly dark
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-18
Updated: 2019-01-18
Packaged: 2019-10-12 00:28:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,339
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17457161
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Throneofgames/pseuds/Throneofgames
Summary: Jon watches her as a predator would watch his prey, his eyes more black than grey in the flickering candlelight. It should have frightened her—this look that scorched and devoured, leaving nothing in its wake—but she could not find it in herself to fear him.The night before Jon leaves for Dragonstone, he and Sansa have a tense argument that leads to them finally giving in to their feelings and sharing a passionate night together. A night that neither of them can seem to forget.





	violent delights, violent ends

**Author's Note:**

> This idea originated from a graphic I posted nearly a year ago and has been bouncing around in my head ever since. Here's to posting things in a timely fashion! Enjoy :)

The sound of her footsteps—severe and precise—echo off the stone walls around her. Face a perfect mask, she makes sure to conceal her thoughts from anyone she might happen across on her way from the great hall.

Rounding the corner, Sansa enters her chamber swiftly, grateful for the privacy it offers from prying eyes. The moment the door shuts behind her, the fire within her flares, burning away her icy countenance. 

Nails biting into the flesh of her palm, she paces the confines of her chamber like a caged animal—a _wolf_. When Jon had made his decision regarding the Dragon Queen known, she’d had no qualms about openly disagreeing with him.

Not even the knowledge that he would be leaving the North to her in his stead was enough to steady the storm inside her. After she had made her grievances known, she had schooled her features into a mask and strode from the hall with an iciness befitting a true queen of winter.

She had told him— _pleaded_ with him—not to follow in the footsteps of their father and Robb. He was supposed to be smarter, to make better choices but he wasn’t. He was choosing _wrong_.

Fury engulfs her. She seizes the object nearest to her and hurls it across the room. It hits the opposite wall and shatters, shards of glass falling to the floor with a tinkling sound.

Her breath comes in short bursts as panic quickly begins to eclipse her anger. No good ever came from a Stark riding south. Jon was her father’s son, he was just as much a Stark as she, despite his bastardy. As King in the North, he was too valuable to risk; too valuable to their people, to the North, to _her_.

_And yet he rides on the morrow to treat with the Mad King’s daughter._

Sansa wraps her arms around her middle trying desperately to fend off the hollow feeling growing there. It threatens to swallow her whole. She has to make him see reason, he must be made to understand. _Gods give me strength_ , she silently prays.

It is an empty plea. There were no such things as the gods, old or new. And if there were, they had stopped listening to her pleas long ago.

A loud bang—her chamber door slamming shut—startles her. She turns, incensed, preparing to berate whoever had dared to enter the Lady of Winterfell’s chambers without a proper invitation.

Jon stands at the other end of the room, eyes intent on her. There is an undercurrent of something dangerous running through him. It is something she has only ever witnessed in men right before they ride off to battle.

Maybe that’s what she is to him. An unwinnable battle, a never-ending war.

Her gaze turns scathing. “You may be king, but these are still my chambers.”

“You deliberately undermined me in there.” His voice is low, severe. He takes a step towards her and her hackles rise.

“Forgive me, I wasn’t aware that offering my opinion was considered a grave offense.”

“You will never do that again. Am I understood?” He asks, each word firm and precise. “You do not have to agree with the decisions I make, but you _will_ respect them.” He levels her with an unflinching stare before turning to leave.

Sansa’s anger flares. “I won’t,” she proclaims, her words causing him to still. “I cannot,” she continues, hotly, “not with this. You’re making a mistake. Going south is a mistake. You are needed here. Your people need you.” _I need you_.

Jon turns to her. “The people need to survive. That won’t happen if we don’t defeat the Night King. Those dragons are our last chance.”

“Then send an emissary!” she nearly shouts. “Your place is here.” _Gods, why couldn’t he understand?_

He shakes his head, visibly frustrated, as if she is a child unable to grasp something so very basic. “No, it must be me. I’m the one whose seen them—fought them. Sending another wouldn’t do any good.”

“There has to be another way,” she argues, trying to sound confident though desperation begins to bleed through. Her eyes search the room as if the stone walls of her chamber hold the answer.

“There is no other way. This is the only chance we’ve got. I’m doing what I can to ensure our survival. The North’s survival.”

“You’re not _listening_. You never listen. You are being foolish, just like with Ramsey.”

Jon’s jaw clenches and his eyes narrow dangerously. “Of course. Every decision I make is wrong. I’m just a bastard who knows nothing, aye?”

“Yes,” she snaps, “and it’s going to get you killed.”

Sansa doesn’t realize how close they’ve gotten, nearly nose to nose, with eyes wild and chests heaving.

“And I’m supposed to listen to you? Because you’ve always made the right decisions. Like trusting Petyr Baelish,” he taunts, cruelly.

Sansa’s hand flies up of its own accord, making contact with Jon’s cheek. A resounding smack echoes throughout the room, stinging her palm with its intensity. For the briefest of moments, she forgets who stands in front of her as she braces for retaliation.

Jon grabs her roughly, pulling her to him with a feral look in his eyes. His lips come down hard against hers, tasting of anger and lust and unrestrained longing. She freezes for a moment, before breaking away in shock.

She can find no trace of the surprise on his face that surely must show on hers and further beneath that, the simmer of all her forbidden longings bubbling up and spilling over, like a pot set to boil.

Jon watches her as a predator would watch his prey, his eyes more black than grey in the flickering candlelight. It should have frightened her—this look that scorched and devoured, leaving nothing in its wake—but she could not find it in herself to fear him.

When she had found her way back to him, she’d sensed something changed within him. He was not the same bastard brother she had grown up with. It seemed that whatever it was had lain dormant, always lurking, _simmering_ just beneath the surface.

Sansa presses her fingertips to her lips where his had been not a moment earlier. Maybe the gods had heard her prayers; heard them and given her a way to fulfill them. She needed to keep Jon close as he was all she had left.

Maybe this was how she was meant to do that. Or maybe the gods had looked into her dark heart and seen the twisted vile thing she had become, deciding to grant the unholy longings that stirred there.

Jon was her brother, her family, her king. _Hers_. She would do whatever it took to bind him to her and if this was the way then so be it. _The lone wolf dies, but the pack survives_.

With her father’s words fresh in her mind, she goes to him like a moth drawn to flame. There is no hesitation in the way he catches her in his arms, so tight it’s painful. His hands tangle in her hair and she delights in the way his blunt nails scrape against her scalp.

Sansa crushes her lips to his with an urgency fueled by anger and a deep-seated need. Jon returns the kiss just as fiercely, walking them backwards until Sansa’s back hits the wall. It knocks the air from her lungs making her gasp. He wastes no time taking the opportunity to deepen the kiss.

He licks into her mouth as if trying to devour her. His callused hand travels down her side before digging into her thigh, hiking it up around his hip. Sansa wraps her arms around his shoulders as he does the same to her other thigh.

Her back is pressed against the wall, her weight solely supported by Jon–his arm wrapped around her waist like a vice. When he tears his lips from hers to continue a burning path down the column of her throat she draws in a ragged breath.

Sansa cannot taste or smell or hear or think of anything that isn’t Jon. He is everywhere, invading her senses, wreaking havoc inside her yet holding her together all the same.

In truth, it had been that way since the moment she’d laid her eyes on him that day at Castle Black what seemed like ages ago. She knew then that she would do whatever it took to keep them safe.

 _We are of one blood, he and I_.

There was something poetic about their joining. The last of the Starks—the blood of Winterfell—becoming one, truly. Nothing would separate them now, not even the Stranger himself. She would not allow it.

Sansa’s hands make their way into Jon’s hair, pulling harshly on the dark locks causing him to half grunt, half moan into her neck. How dare he try to leave her behind. How dare he even contemplate something so foolish. Something that could get him killed, separating them forever. The thought causes her to pull harder.

Jon’s arm falls away and she drops back down to her feet, her knees nearly buckling from the abruptness. He takes a step back, his dark eyes never leaving her face. The ache between her legs throbs, as a kind of heat licks its way up her body, engulfing her.

“Turn around,” he orders, voice deceptively soft.

She obeys, her need of him clouding her mind like a fog. Deft fingers unlace the back of her dress quickly. It slips further down her shoulders as Jon pushes it open.

All movement ceases. Sansa cannot fathom why—until she remembers, the realization hitting her like an iron clad fist to the stomach. She twists away, trying to shield herself from his gaze but it’s no use. Rough hands grip her, holding her still. Fury and shame intermingle as she struggles to hide herself from Jon’s eyes.

It was likely he’d heard the rumors, the whole of the Seven Kingdoms had, but this was different. Stripped bare with the evidence on display, she could not hide behind her mask as was customary. She was as vulnerable as a soldier caught in the middle of a battle without his armor.

Jon wraps a strong arm around her middle, pulling her closer to him. A callused hand traces down the pale, scarred expanse of her back, gentler than she would have thought. His touch is near reverent, worshipful. Something about it makes her think of her father, of how he would sit under the heart tree in the godswood and polish his greatsword. It was his way of worshipping the old gods.

The feel of Jon’s soft lips on her raised flesh brings angry tears to her eyes. “I’ll not have your pity,” she hisses into the wall, struggling to break his hold on her. Sansa wanted his anger, his lust. Not this, never this.

Jon holds her easily, his lips brushing over her scars like a promise, like an oath. He continues the trek down her body, lips and tongue working in tandem over each mark, as if his touch alone could heal them, as if he meant to erase all traces of the past and leave a mark of his own upon her skin. “Then you will find none from me.”

When his lips finally still, his hold on her loosens, giving Sansa just enough room to push away from the wall. Jon watches her as she whirls around, hands tingling with the need to ravage his body just as his kiss had done to her soul. She shoves at his chest, but he is steady as stone.

She had offered him her body, but it had not been enough for him. Not this beast who wore the face of her half-brother. He would have all of her; her heart and mind and spirit alike. Sansa can see it in his eyes, plain as day. He will accept nothing less.

Like the vines that now consumed the glass gardens, he meant to force himself into every crack and crevice of her porcelain skin, taking as much as he gave and giving no relief.

Jon is too quick for her, snatching her hands up in his as she struggles to lash out. He pulls her tight against his chest. Their breath intermingles as they stare at one another—a battle of wills at play.

The hunger is there as well as the anger but there’s something more, something that goes beyond basic desire. It’s a craving so intense it borders on violence, a burning need to possess and consume every inch of each other.

The rough material of his jerkin rubs against her bare chest and this obsessive longing for him overwhelms her. She wants to claw at him and kiss him and tear at his walls until they are crumbling as hers are.

Jon’s hand grasps the back of her neck, drawing her in for a hard, possessive kiss. Their teeth clash and instead of trying to strike at him, Sansa’s hands seek to pull him closer.

They tear at the remaining clothing, desperate for the flesh that lay underneath. When nary a scrap of material separates them, Jon gathers her in his arms, her legs locking around his waist like chains.

In a flurry of activity, she is deposited onto the bed as Jon hovers above her, an all-consuming presence. “Is this what you wanted? Your bastard brother between your legs?” His tone is callous as his hand reaches out to grip her throat. He exerts no pressure but the threat of his possession is there and it sends a steady throb to her core.

Sansa raises her head, blue eyes piercing his. “Yes,” she hisses. Her thighs constrict around his hips, locking him in. With one look, she pushes him—always pushing—towards that point of no return. She is desperate to fall over the edge and she is even more desperate to take him with her.

She is ready for him, ready and wet and willing and when he finally enters her in a swift, brutal thrust there is nothing but an overwhelming sense of relief. Jon lets out a noise that sounds more wolf than man and her nails scratch at his skin, desperate to draw him ever closer.

His eyes, nearly glowing, pin her to the bed as surely as his weight does. “You twist me like no other,” he grits out between deep thrusts. “Gods be damned. I cannot find a way to unlove you.”

His words have an odd way of incensing her. How _dare_ he speak those words to her _._ What they have is stronger, more consuming than any love could ever be. Love is a fleeting, fickle thing. If she had learned anything in her younger years, it had been that.

With a furious grunt, Sansa manages to push him away. He lands on his back next to her and she is quick to straddle him, settling atop him like a queen would her throne. He feasts his gaze on her, taking in every inch of her pale skin, the long red tresses that fall around her shoulders like liquid fire.

She slides her wet heat over his length, teasingly, not allowing herself to give in to the relief they both desperately yearn for. Hot, rough hands reach for her but she knocks them away harshly. Her rebuff does nothing to deter him. His hands settle on her hips, fingers digging in to the soft skin there.

Wrenching them away, Sansa pins them on either side of his head. She leans down and with a smile that would tempt the Stranger himself, begins to drag herself over his hardness with the lightest of pressure. She cannot help but moan at the spark of pleasure it incurs.

Continuing the teasing gesture, she torments him, torments them both until it seems he can bear it no longer. He lurches up, breaking her hold on him. Jon’s eyes are black with desire, with the compulsive need to have his hands on her.

The beast gazes out at her, through her brother’s eyes, unhappy at being denied the ability to touch her and the knowledge of the fact thrills her.

His hand fists in her hair, holding her in place and the sweet bite of pain makes her gasp. In one smooth thrust he buries himself inside her and she can’t help but cry out at the exquisite feeling. But she will not let him win that easily.

She acts as if to resist his touch but he is immovable. “Don’t,” he snarls at her. He grips the back of her neck and smashes his lips against hers. Sansa snaps her teeth at him, like the wolf she is, catching his lip in a vicious bite.

Her fingers find their way into his hair and she _pulls._ They are wolves for true then, scratching and pulling, all teeth and tongue and nails, each trying to gain the upper hand. Jon’s lips travel from the base of her throat to her chest, branding her with marks of teeth and lips upon her breasts.

His fingers journey to where they are joined and he touches her in a way that has her back bowing, the feeling so intense, so white-hot it steals the breath from her lungs. In a haze of pleasure, she drags her nails down his back savagely, earning a curse from him.

Jon thrusts into her ruthlessly, toeing the line between pleasure and pain. His eyes are wild and the sight stirs something deep inside her, this thought that she alone held this power—the ability to unhinge him completely.

Sansa can see the struggle inside him, the war he wages with himself. He is trying to keep the beast at bay, to hide the depth of his depravity from her. She will not accept that. “Look at me,” she commands harshly, taking hold of his face. “I have seen what you truly are and yet I have not turned away. Nor will I.”

Her acceptance, nay, her _encouragement_ of the darkest parts of himself is what does it in the end. Any restraint he possessed previously vanishes completely at her words. The pace he sets is punishing, brutal. The sweetest kind of agony. It has her nails clawing at his skin, her head falling back until the ends of her hair brushes the tops of his thighs.

The obscene sounds of their pleasure fill the room. “That’s it,” Jon manages to get out. “Let the whole of Winterfell hear how sweetly you sing for me. If only they could see you now, how divine you look with my cock buried inside you.”

His words inflame her lust and ire in equal measure. Her teeth close around the skin of his shoulder and she bites down until she tastes the coppery tang of his blood. Jon grunts and threads his fingers through her hair, pulling back sharply until she releases him. She expects to see more of his anger but there is only violent longing, a fire of which she has never seen the likes of.

His lips are hot and bruising against hers as he licks into her mouth, chasing the taste of his blood on her tongue. He seems to relish in it. It’s twisted, perverse, but it sends a bolt of heat down her spine.

Before Sansa can draw a breath, he flips them over, his weight pressing her into the mattress. “My little wolf has teeth, does she?” His taunting tone is a stark contrast to the punishing rhythm of his thrusts. _Yes, yes, we are wolves. And wolves mate for life._

She can’t help but cry out at the feel of their joining, overpowering as it is. Jon is so deep inside her, not only her body but her mind, her soul—the very marrow of her. In her frenzied state, she brings his lips down hard against hers.

The kiss is clumsy and voracious, tasting like blood and desperation and the most exquisite kind of self-destruction. Jon is speaking her name into her neck over and over again like a prayer, or perhaps it is a curse.

His skin scorches and she feels the flame ignite and engulf her. The fire licks at her flesh until she is utterly consumed, until they are both consumed. At this rate, they will set all of Winterfell aflame, the whole of the North and yet Sansa finds she cares not. For her, there is only Jon. They are burning, burning, burning and soon there will be nothing left of them but ashes and bone.

Jon pounds into her with a wild abandon, releasing an animalistic growl, sending them both over the precipice until they’re falling so far and so fast with only each other to hold on to. Bodies slick with sweat, they breathe as if there is one breath to share between them.

“And now,” he pants out, forehead pressed against hers, “now you will never be free of me.”

 ***

 _Sore._ It’s the first thought she has as her mind creeps toward consciousness. The feeling is a delicious one, especially considering its origins. Sansa’s lips curl upwards even as her eyes remain shut. Jon is truly hers now; wholly, completely.

They would never part again. He had promised her, with his words and body alike. A warmth fills her at the memories, a warmth she hasn’t felt since she was just a girl, before King’s Landing, before Joffrey and Cersei and Littlefinger, before Ramsey. The thought is a sobering one.

Before they had found each other again, she had been so cold. A perpetual chill had taken root in her, numbing her from the inside out. But Jon’s blood had run hot where hers had been cold.

Little by little she’d felt herself begin to thaw, drawing comfort from Jon’s fire. He had been the one to breathe life back into her and now he was as integral to her survival as water or food or shelter.

Wandering fingers roam over the bed searching for warmth, for _his_ warmth. They are met with only cold. The cold of a bed that had not been lain in for hours.

Bolting upright, Sansa scans the room. The chill that had met her fingertips weaves its way up the length of her arm, until it penetrates her very core. She is as alone as a fallen empire, crumbling back into the dirt from whence it came

He wouldn’t, he wouldn’t, he wouldn’t, he _promised._

“No,” the word tears from her as she flings back the furs and hastens from the bed. She rushes for the door of her chamber nearly forgetting her nakedness in her panic. Throwing on a cover, she ties it quickly and rips open the door, sprinting from the room.

She cares not about the state of her dishevelment or who she may happen across in the halls, she can think of nothing but the terrible cold that has gripped her by the throat with icy fingers.

Her bare feet burn from the biting chill of the stone floors as she races toward the battlement and when she finally reaches it, snow is falling around her and the wind is whipping her hair into a frenzy but she looks out and she can see.

Far out in the distance, nothing but a pinprick of black against an ocean of white, she _sees._ The bitter cold overwhelms her then and she wonders, she _wonders_ if she will ever be warm again. 

***

Jon stands at the cliff’s edge of Dragonstone, overlooking the Narrow Sea, the heavy winds lashing his cloak to and fro. He knows now that coming here was a mistake, that Sansa was right. If he ever makes it back to Winterfell, there will be hell to pay. The thought almost makes him smile.

He was wrong to come here, wrong to leave her like he did. Gods, he was wrong about so many things. Their bodies had made vows to each other, whispered promises in the dark that would be hard to keep in the light of day. Closing his eyes, he tilts his head back and lets out a deep sigh as if it could somehow purge him of his many sins. He had sinned—and sinned and sinned and sinned.

How could he not? Tempted as he was by such forbidden fruit. With just one taste of her sweetness, she’d brought the beast within him to his knees and condemned him. Sansa, his sweet sister, had seen him— _really_ seen him. Every dark mark, every scar, each and every inch of his tar black soul and still she had reached for him with eager arms.

He is wrong, sick, depraved—he knows this. But there is not an ounce of regret to be found anywhere inside him. His need of her had clouded his mind, tested his self-control and then he’d kissed her, her lips tasting like every dark thought he’d ever had and now standing here at the edge of this cliff, leagues away from her, he knows, _knows_ he would do it all again.

Her blood was the same blood that flowed through his veins and it called to him; a siren’s call and he’d followed it all too willingly. There was no use fighting it, his need of her was not a rational thing, it was visceral, almost primal and it was as essential to him now as the air he needed to breathe.

That was the beginning and the end of it, almost simple in its complexity and it made what he had to do next seem simple as well. With an icy determination, Jon turned and headed for the castle. He would not falter, would not hesitate. He would do what he must and then he would return to her.


End file.
